


Disons...

by redscudery



Series: Kinkmeme Prompt Fills [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Devious Sherlock, Established Relationship, Language Kink, M/M, Oral Sex, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:17:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little drabble for this kinkmeme prompt: John is immensely turned on when Sherlock speaks in foreign languages. Sherlock uses it to his advantage. </p>
<p>It was supposed to be a 221b but raged out of control, and it's a bit silly (science wins!), but I hope you like it. Happy Red Pants Monday!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disons...

When Sherlock finally gets up, John is already in the kitchen, looking into the refrigerator. By the droop in his shoulders, they’re out of milk. Out of clean laundry, too, by the red pants John is wearing. 

Sherlock pads into the kitchen and buries his nose in John’s neck, inhaling sleep and warmth. 

“You couldn’t have bought milk yesterday?” 

“No.” Sherlock’s hand snakes down to cup John’s buttock. John might hate his laundry-day red pants, but Sherlock doesn’t- they are soft and clinging and provocative.

“You know…” John’s complaint is cut off by Sherlock’s mobile ringing.

“Police nationale! Ha! … Oui, bonjour? C’est lui-même. Alors?” 

John has turned towards him, watching him intently. This is, Sherlock realizes, catching John right in some previously unidentified erogenous zone. Always a slave to vanity, he lays it on a little thicker.

“Ce n’est pas du tout le bon acide! Pourquoi?”

John’s pupils are dilated, his mouth is slightly open, and he’s hard and getting harder. In this state, he’s an incitement to sin and Sherlock’s first impulse is to hang up abruptly, strip down those red pants and bend him over the table. Then, though, he’s interrupted by a truly gratuitous idiocy from the person at the other end of the line, and he can’t let that go.

“Mais non, bordel, je vous l’ai dit!” 

John has stepped closer again, and Sherlock suddenly realizes there are possibilities for this situation that don’t involve offending the French police. Much. Not that it matters.

“Et les résultats, eux?” Sherlock raises his eyebrows at John, then leans back suggestively against the table. He himself is hardening now; the officer on the other end is piling up ridiculous statements that Sherlock is going to take pleasure in tearing apart, and John, beautiful, excited John, is sinking to his knees in front of him. 

“Non, mais tu te fous de ma gueule! Cette analyse ne vaut absolument rien et vous le savez! Oh!”

John has untied Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and with no ceremony, taken Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, slick and wet. His tongue swirls over the glans and then he sucks, hard. Sherlock breathes in and focuses.

“C’est clair que ça n’aurait jamais pu être le mari, voyons, Capitaine Bernard!” Insulted silence, then shrill chatter. Apparently Sherlock is speaking to Inspecteur Dubeau. He is caring less and less; John’s hand is on that soft, sensitive spot behind his balls, his mouth is insistent and hot. 

“Tout de même, j’ai raison et vous le savez. Putain!” Sherlock’s control is slipping. He shifts his leg slightly to rub against John’s cock. It’s so hard under the soft fabric of his pants and John’s breathing accelerates so quickly at the contact Sherlock knows he’s beyond excited. 

“Peu importe ce que vous pensez, bande d’imbeciles. La chimie ne mens pas.” Sherlock loves it when science wins. He loves it more when science wins and his cock is in John’s mouth. His hips are moving, pushing himself more deeply into his lover’s mouth. John increases his pace and suddenly Sherlock is coming, flying, hands on John’s shoulders, breathless. 

When he comes back to himself, Sherlock realizes that John has not yet come, though he’s close. Pulling him to his feet, Sherlock enfolds him into a kiss, savouring the warm stocky body next to his. 

“As-tu aimé, alors” he murmurs against John’s lips, enjoying the tremble that goes through John’s body. “Veux-tu que je continue?”

He flips John against the table and slides down on his knees. John is achingly hard under those ridiculous pants; there’s a damp spot the size of a pound coin and he’s pushing insistently against Sherlock’s cheek.

“Veux-tu que je te suce?” He knows John doesn`t speak French, but he also knows John understands that, at least, so taking the tiny moan he hears for acquiescence, he lowers John’s pants and takes him into his mouth. 

One, two strokes with his hand and tongue, and before Sherlock can think of anything else to say, John comes, silently, shaking with the force of it. Sherlock holds his hips, steady and calm, enjoying this abandon. John so rarely lets himself be taken over by desire like this.

Once John is able to support himself again, Sherlock stands up, running his hands gently over John’s chest and shoulders. John sighs shakily.

“That was brutal, you bastard. The Police nationale will never consult you again.”

“Je m’en fous carrément. Je n’ai besoin que de toi.”

“Translation, please?” John shivers gently in Sherlock’s arms. 

“You didn’t need one before.”

“Yes, but now I care what you’re saying. Before, it didn’t matter.”

“Je pense que je vais tout simplement continuer de parler fran…” John punches Sherlock, only half playfully.

“Fine. I said I don’t care about the Police nationale. All I need is you.”

“Arrogant git.”

“True.”


End file.
